


If Only

by argelfraster_z



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Erik has Issues, Gen, Hearing Voices, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I mean that's not technically wrong, Meg is a legend, Mental Breakdown, More angst, Poor Erik, So much angst, it’s probably not as bad as these tags make it sound, it’s really just creepy laughter but we’ll be safe here, random poto & lnd lyrics thrown in just for fun, sure I’ll add that why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26926171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argelfraster_z/pseuds/argelfraster_z
Summary: Darkness. There was nothing but darkness. A darkness so complete, so final, that there was nothing beyond it. A silly thought, of course, for hadn’t it always been?
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera & Meg Giry
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	If Only

**Author's Note:**

> Well guess who wrote most of this at 2am… (yup you guessed right it was me) 
> 
> This one is a little dark, I really wanted to give my past self a hug while editing :) This doesn’t have any specific plot attached to it, though it is ALW compliant (and Leroux depending on your interpretation!). Just after the end of canon. 
> 
> Music: Make Me An Offer I Cannot Refuse by Sufjan Stevens
> 
> TWs: (Erik-typical) mental illness and glorification of death
> 
> Enjoy!

Darkness. There was nothing but darkness. A darkness so complete, so final, that there was nothing beyond it. It wasn’t a thought, it wasn’t a choice, it wasn’t a speculation, it simply was. There was no other life beyond the darkness, beyond what lay ahead, there wasn’t an ahead, there was only a here, and soon, there wouldn’t even be that. The entire world was darkness. 

A silly thought, of course, for hadn’t it always been?

Yes, a silly thought indeed. Silly to think someone would ever—silly to think the world would ever—no, no one did, no one ever would. Silly to even think it. Betrayal, betrayal of the self, of the only thing the self ever cared about in the vile, vile world. Vile, all of it, taking and hiding and betraying when needed most. There was nothing beyond that world, nothing beyond this, emergence was past hope and so was redemption. Vile, the self, the body, the hands that tied a noose or played a haunting melody, damn them all, purge the evil and pray that there was something salvageable among the ashes. 

Mistakes, so many mistakes. All visible now, the dawn broke on every wrong and every misspoken word and there was nothing that escaped view. If Only, there was always that infernal If Only! That teased the back of the mind, it laughed, it laughed, it was insane, it was! One wrong turn could bring you to Hell, and there had been so many, so many wrong turns, and the laughter burned like bullets against skin. Why, why?

Death was a comfort, the thought of it. An ending. A heartbeat in the darkness, one, two, three, gone, all gone. Love and death danced an eternal battle of passion, the two were inseparable, one caused the other, sooner or later. Bargaining with either was impossible. Slipping into the soul, infiltrating the mind, the hands, the quill on the paper, writing, tearstained. Finality was fleeting, it only came once and denial was impossible, fighting was impossible, some things seized control of the body and of the mind and twisted them beyond recognition into a vile being of torment. Vile. Vile! Disgusting, the music, lies, all lies, a maze of mirrors where the mirrors all reflected what was real. A prison of them, with no exit except the reflection. The other world, the other life, the life without life, the safety it would bring. To slip into a coffin for the last time. 

A single line, a simple phrase, to tell the story, to spread the final message. Printed cleanly in black ink, printed for all to see, not caring if it spread the lies or the truth, for neither would be right, nothing would ever be right again, not like this. Souls merged and when they were torn, parts were lost. Everything was lost. Blindly, blindly the mind was given and taken without a thought. Guilty, guilty, of everything. Guilty! Vile! And the If Only that laughed, laughed, never stopped… 

The continued dance of death and love that none could stop, that none dared try. Music like no one had heard, music, unclaimable, music that tore and ravaged and could not repair, flooding into a mind, a soul, drowning sense. What did sense matter in this world? None. Sense was vile, lies, the senses could not be trusted, nothing could be trusted. There was love, still—or was it death?—and that was all. And there was pain, the pain that could not be triumphed, the hole in the world that could be fallen through. 

And then there was the regret. Oceans, rivers, streams, barrels. No number pinned it down, nothing capable of its definition existed. So many barrels to be filled! If only regret could be poured from the mouth and forced on another. If Only. 

If only the world was held together by piano strings, then it could be understood. If only people could be controlled like instruments, then they could be happy. All of them, whatever tune was laid upon them, they could all be saved. Happiness, the thing that lifted its teasing head only to recoil when it saw the most vulnerable and abandoned. Afraid. Just like all the others.

There could not be a healing. There could not be a recovery. Perhaps existence, in some form, but nothing more. Furious scribblings, dying stars, red ink that dried brown. Ripped paintings and fallen sandbags that leaked strangling truth. No one would remember, no one would care. Maybe one, but not for long. Easily dealt with, one, and surely the world knew that too. A being trapped in darkness who should not have existed. Vile! Guilty! Worthless! Worth less than the stacks of burning papers that ignited the world but that none could see. 

And what was the price of a soul, really? Controllable, surely, souls, easier than hearts. Easily bartered, easily traded, the devil was known to take some in exchange. For what? For happiness? For freedom? If there was a Hell it was not worse than this. If there was a Hell it was a mansion on a river, and if there was a Heaven it was an everlasting silence that none could penetrate. 

Spinning, spinning, in this forest that was not a forest. The world was dusty, the memories were scarred like a face and broken like a heart. Ripped into shreds like the mind, pulled apart like the soul. Some part clung behind, the frail part that had not latched itself to the only redeemer, the only chance of a real life, the angel. If only all of it had gone, if only there were simply a body left behind and a soul lost inside of time instead of this, this torture of half-existence. If Only. Silly to wish. Silly to reach out in the darkness and hope to find someone waiting there. 

That which was destroyed was invisible, was hidden, but nevertheless still achingly was. Broken in shards, crumbled in ash, was, unrelenting. Was. He was. He. 

He had a name. Couldn’t remember it. He had an  _ after _ , a light, perhaps, if he could find a way out, a way up. Pain, and brokenness, and a chorus of Betrayal, Vile, Pointless, Guilty, Death. But he Was, he held onto that Was, to that He, to that vile existence that started to seep into his core. Molten dark of a different kind, that filled instead of depleted. Was there anything else? A world, another soul in this world? Perhaps not. Perhaps he truly had been abandoned.

Even in a labyrinth, there was a center, was there not? And if a center, then a place further from the center, an opposite, an escape. An escape was needed. But he did not know how to look. If only someone would find him, if only, If Only… 

Find him. A need to be found. And if a need to be found, then a simple case! Lost, lost and needing to be found, but the words did not have meaning. Lost where? In what? By whom? Questions, regret, memories, barrels. Falling, deeper, deeper, losing ground, losing footing, thoughts of simply tumbling into an abyss of nothing. But that Was, that He, he wanted to hold on. He wanted. A feeling that was not hate, or regret, or If Only. A feeling, a foothold, the first rung of a ladder. A feeling that defied understanding. Perhaps he was dead already. And the laughter, the damned laughter… 

There was a  _ something _ , a  _ something else _ , an  _ up _ , an  _ escape _ . If only the ladder could be climbed. If Only… someone laughing, pointing, pointing at him, the vile, guilty thing he was, the monster even death turned away. Monster. The power of monster. A link, a something, a memory, a world he could not see but knew existed. Monster. He. Was. 

He was the monster. And he was not dead. A realization, an existence. 

And a whisper, with it, getting louder. A physical feeling, a shoulder, an arm, a shaking of them. A hand extended towards his own, helping him up the ladder, a possibility. Maybe even a light. 

In the fifth cellar of the Paris Opera House, in a room full of scattered papers and soft lullabies, under the watchful and constant gaze of a little ballerina who was as relentless as death or love or maybe both, Erik opened his eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends, thanks so much for reading! I hope you liked it!  
> Credit where it’s due: the line about piano strings came from Radical Face’s song Wrapped in Piano Strings, which I can’t recommend highly enough!  
> If you enjoyed, leave a comment! If you hated it… sure, leave a comment! 
> 
> A


End file.
